


Lady Bolton of the Dreadfort

by sternflammenden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-29 15:40:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/688622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternflammenden/pseuds/sternflammenden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Pink Wedding:  Roose and Walda marry at the Twins</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lady Bolton of the Dreadfort

She tries her best to stand still while her sisters adorn her for the wedding, but Walda is nervous, almost trembling with the thought than in a few hours, it will be time. She doesn’t fear her husband-to-be, for he has treated her with an odd sort of indulgent kindness, suffering her kisses and fancy notions, nor does she fear the thought of leaving her home for a northern wilderness that she has never seen. Rather, she fears blundering somehow, making fools of herself and her family, turning the household that she is to run into a disaster. She is the second daughter of a fourth son, never intended for much than a minor lordling, a second son at best, but politics and circumstances and sheer luck have connived to make her the lady of the second-most powerful house in the North, and she is not quite sure how to properly _be_ Lady Bolton.

She supposes that she will get by as she always has, relying on her sweet nature, and ebullient cheerfulness to carry her along, hoping for the best. Walda knows in her heart that she is not exceedingly beautiful or dazzlingly clever, not winningly charming, and she knows too that her teeming family, for the most part, makes secret mockery of her marriage. It does not trouble her to wed Roose Bolton, though, for she has enjoyed his company thus far. He has treated her well, kissing her hand, bearing her gifts that she is sure that someone else has selected for her, and welcoming her into his bed with a slight smile when he’d bared her and had his way with her. It likewise does not trouble her to know the arbitrary way that he selected her, for she is practical and appreciates a practical husband.

She warrents a glimpse of herself in the glass. Ami is fastening her omnipresent braids, deemed too childish for a bride’s coiffure, into a coronet, weaving little reds and pinks in the twisted locks. Marissa, her younger sister, troubles herself with the flounces of her gown, straightening the ruffles so that they fall the length of her skirt evenly. She does not know what she will do without her sisters, for despite the scheming machinations that plague the Freys, they are all close-knit, and she knows that they will seldom, if ever, grace a place like the Dreadfort with their presence. Ami is tall and slender like Mama, and Marissa short and plump like Father. Like Walda. She loves them both dearly and thanks the gods that her little brother may soon join her, as he has been fostering at Winterfell. 

When her mother appears behind her in the reflection, she starts a bit, but smiles as she carefully fastens a strand of pearls, fresh from White Harbor, one of her wedding presents from her promised, around Walda’s neck. She leans close, brushing her lips against her daughter’s cheek, and whispers in her ear, “That will do.” 

She is ready, and there is nothing left to do but hasten to the sept without delay, even though her heart is in her chest, and her stomach in knots. 

“You will be a good wife to him,” Mama says, her voice low and serious, but a smile is on her face as she presents her daughter with a sprig of daisies, flowers from the Riverlands. “You have good sense and that will please Lord Bolton. But we had best go, sweet girl.” 

So they go, and she does not look back at the rooms that will soon no longer belong to her, and enter the holy chambers at the Twins, kept mostly for appearance’s sake, as they are not a devout family. But today all is in order, and it is nothing for Walda but a blur of candles and flowers, and faces, so many faces, her family, jovial and boisterous, and the Bolton men, grim-faced and solemn. It is an odd contrast, just as she and her husband will be, and Walda fixes on Roose as she travels the short aisle to meet him, conscious of the rustle of her full skirts and the way that her maiden’s cape, pale blue tipped with vair, drags on the floor behind her, slightly too long for her. His face is unchanging, the same expression at the high altar as what she’s seen when he’s been in conference with her Lord Grandfather, or with her dear cousin Lothar, or giving some orders to the forces that he’s brought down from the North. But when she joins him, he almost smiles, or at least she imagines that she notices a slight change in that blank gaze. But it could be the light. She pays little heed to the words said before them, murmuring the vows , her voice just as hushed as Roose’s, and the only time that she really feels anything different is when the Frey garment is lifted from her shoulder and replaced with the pink and red of Bolton. 

She smiles then, broadly, breaking the solemnity of the occasion, and whispers to Roose, now her husband, “Oh! How nice that it matches my gown.” And before he kisses her to seal the ceremony, she imagines that he does smile, and it thrills her heart to know that she, of all people, has made this cruel, cold man happy in some way, and it lessens her anxiety to know that at least she can do that. Even if she is not a great lady, she is a lady after all, Lady Bolton of the Dreadfort, and she thinks on that as she tightens her arms round Roose, her cheeks flushed and her hair mussed when they part to hoots of approval from some of her more unruly relatives. And she can’t check the broad grin, so unbecoming, yet so natural, that she bears as he takes her arm and leads her out into the daylight.


End file.
